


Home is where we are strong

by Zoadgo



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Gladiator AU, M/M, Sold into Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-13
Updated: 2015-07-13
Packaged: 2018-04-09 05:50:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,914
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4336295
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zoadgo/pseuds/Zoadgo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mbege is taken from his home one day, sold to slavers to, in turn, be sold as a potential gladiator. In the care of the slavers, he meets Murphy, who ends up being bought alongside him. Together, they pass all the trials that their new lives as slaves puts before them. When word of a grand tournament, the prize of which is freedom, reaches them, they know that they must win it. The only problem being that only one gladiator is allowed to win...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home is where we are strong

“Fuck you! I haven’t done anything to deserve this! I’m a free Roman, by Jupiter’s cock, let me go!” 

Mbege hears the shouting and struggling long before the cursing man comes into sight, dragged by two burly slavers, a third slaver, known as Cage Wallace, decked in finer linens following behind. If it weren’t for the fact that even focusing on the excruciatingly loud quartet threatens to make Mbege spill what little food he has in his stomach on the stained dirt beneath him, he would be tempted to lunge at the men with a few curses of his own. As is, he just closes his eyes with a groan and leans his head back ever so slowly against the rough hewn stone at his back.

“Shut your mouth, pretty boy, we don’t give a shit about what you did or didn’t do to end up here. You’re our property now, and I don’t want to have one of my associates here decrease your market value by damaging the goods.” The third man’s voice makes Mbege shudder. 

Mbege knows the scene without having to look at it, having been a part of it recently and having seen it repeated many times since. The two brutes - whose names hadn’t been necessary in the time Mbege had been imprisoned here, they were simply summoned to the third man’s side with a pointed finger and a short command of “you” - would drag the previously free man to one of four cells: a packed one full of those who would become common house slaves;, a slightly less crowded cell for those pretty enough to charge a premium for the pleasures of their bodies; a sparse one for those who were deemed so unvaluable as to be condemned to the mines; and then the cell in which Mbege was the sole inhabitant currently, for those who might have promise in the Arena. The man would be thrown in, collared with rough rope or leather, and probably kicked a few times if he wasn’t to be sold for pleasure. All of this would be done under Wallace’s supervision.

It was he who had come to Mbege’s home, had introduced himself politely, had smiled at him, and ultimately told him he was no longer free. Wallace had summoned the brutes and told him not to fight. Mbege hadn’t listened, and while he had managed to draw blood on both of the men that he’d fought before they subdued him, he had earned only several blows to the head for his trouble. In the end, he recieved leather around his neck, and was placed in a cage like an animal.

Mbege can’t resist cracking his eyes open slightly to get a good look at the so called “pretty boy”. His head and stomach protest the action, but he grits his teeth and leans his head forward slightly so that he can watch the procession apparently headed, once again, past Mbege’s cell. They pause as Wallace addresses the new slave, stepping around to face the striking man.

The new slave is surprisingly pale, and more slender than many of the men gathered in the cells around Mbege. He would almost appear effeminate, were it not for his strong facial features. Prominent cheekbones, a truly impressive nose, lips that seem familiar with the smirk that graces them. All of this is only made more attractive by the anger, the fight burning within his eyes and evident in every fiber of his stance.

Wallace reaches out to grab Pretty Boy’s chin, and Mbege can see in the quick flash of eyes to the outstretched hand and the slight clench of a jaw in the slave that Wallace will regret that.

Wallace’s fingers never touch Pretty Boy’s skin. When they’re just about to come into contact with him, the captive man lunges forward with bared teeth. The brutes grunt in surprise and tighten their grips on his arms, but his goal hadn’t been to escape. No, his goal was currently clenched between his teeth, white quickly being stained red and his jaw flexes and sinks the blunt instruments into the meaty flesh between Wallace’s thumb and forefinger. His rips his head back with an almost feral smile, blood trickling down his chin, and spits the hunk of tissue at Wallace. Not that Wallace much notices, given the amount of shrieking and clutching his hand to his chest, but Mbege thinks it’s a nice touch.

“Good thing you don’t have a market value for me to damage.” Pretty Boy is going to get sent to the mines for that at best, if not killed off hand, but it cheered Mbege up a little to see the slaver bleed, at the very least.

When Wallace finally calms down a touch, he glares up at Pretty Boy, and Mbege wonders if he’s going to see someone beaten to death in front of him. It wouldn’t be a first, but he’d thought the slaver wouldn’t want to waste the income. The look on Wallace face is just shy of a murderous rage, and eventually it settles into a cruel smile. Profit won out after all, then.

“You know, I was going to sell you as a pleasure slave. It can be a luxurious life, depending on the Dominus you serve. But clearly that won’t work, no one wants a pleasure slave with a broken nose.” A glance at brute #1 has a heavy fist connects solidly with Pretty Boy’s nose, and his blood mixes with Wallace’s as it pours forth. Pretty Boys just spits some blood into the dirt and smiles as Wallace continues. 

“And you couldn’t be a house slave, because no one wants a slave with offputting scars serving them their wine.” Wallace nods at brute #2 and drags three fingers below his right eye, seeming for all the world as if scratching an itch. But the trail of those fingertips is mirrored in Pretty Boy’s flesh, a knife craving deep into the skin. Mbege is relatively certain that all of Wallace’s blood on Pretty Boy’s face has been washed off by his own, now. Yet he doesn’t nothing more than grunt at the pain, and smile again as Wallace goes on.

“So now, if I’m to make any money off of you, it’s the mines or the Arena.” Wallace drops his gaze to his hand as he releases his clutching grasp over the injury and begins to bind it with a strip of cloth. He talks as he bandages himself, appearing as if the decision is of no importance to him at all. “The mines are always accepting of errant slaves. And they don’t care what you look like, or how rude you are, or what you’ve done. They’ll take you in just the same as anyone else, and within a few weeks you’ll be just another of the walking skeletons that haul stone from shafts, working mindlessly until you die.”

Wallace ties the improvised bandage off much more neatly than Mbege would have thought possible with just one hand for the task. Perhaps he got bitten by his slaves a lot and had some practice in the matter. He smiles and steps slightly closer to Pretty Boy, not nearly close enough to be attacked again. “But they don’t pay much for mine drudges. And for the suffering you’ve put me through, I would dearly like to make a profit off of you. So that leaves us with one option. Congratulations, you’re going to be a gladiator. If you survive the training, that is.”

Pretty Boy is thrown into the cell with Mbege, but he’s not tossed to the ground as Mbege had been. No, the brute who isn’t holding the cell door open shoves Pretty Boy forward by the back of his neck, forcing him at an angle that introduces his face to the rock wall next to the entrance in a less than pleasant manner. Metal clangs behind him, and by the time Pretty Boy has turned around, spitting blood and curses, the targets of his rage are safely out of reach. 

“I’ll fucking kill you! Let me out of here!” Pretty boy shouts at the retreating figures, shaking the bars of the cell and seeming for all the world as if he intends to tear them from their moorings in the stone. Mbege just attempts to keep his head from exploding due to the noise.

“Do you mind not doing that? Some of us are trying to die quietly here.” Mbege stifles a groan as he speaks for the first time since he was thrown in here. Once again, the small meal he’d eaten shortly before being abducted threatens to make a return, but he doesn’t actually taste bile this time. He takes it as a good sign of recovery because, contrary to what he’d just said, he really doesn’t want to die in a dirty cell that reeks of piss and shit.

Pretty Boy seems mildly surprised when Mbege speaks, as if he hadn’t realized there was someone else in the enclosure. Perhaps he hadn’t, Mbege had tucked himself in a corner as soon as he had been able to crawl from where the guards had left him, and he hadn’t moved much since. A matter of necessity more than desire, but Pretty Boy could have easily overlooked him, given as his attention seems to be focused more on detailing brutal deaths, and the plethora of borderline sacrilegious acts he would perform with Wallace’s corpse.

“I’d rather die loudly, but to each his own, I suppose.” Pretty Boy snorts - which has to have hurt, given the current situation with his nose - and turns to lean heavily against the wall for a moment, before sliding down to the floor. He adopts a pose similar to Mbege’s, just slightly more relaxed. Well, even with the broken nose and cut up face, he probably feels a hell of a lot better than Mbege, so being more relaxed makes sense. Pretty Boy jerks his chin at him. “So, what name should I wail in mourning when you quietly pass from this world?”

“Name’s Mbege. And I’d hit you for the sarcasm, but I feel like I might actually die if I tried.” A slight exaggeration, but only very slightly so. Gods, if he ever got better, Mbege would cherish every moment in which he didn’t feel like his brains were soup.

“I’m sure you’ll have plenty of chances to hit me, if we’re both going to be gladiators.” Pretty Boy wipes the back of his hand across his lower face, succeeding in nothing more than spreading the blood more evenly over his skin. Even that is quickly undone by the blood still pouring from his cheek. “You can call me Murphy, by the way.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Murphy.” Mbege bites his tongue as he moves, ripping some fabric from the hem of his already tattered robes and throwing it at Murphy. He gestures to his face as the other man shoots him a confused look. “You’re bleeding everywhere, you might want to stop that.”

Murphy narrows his eyes slightly, as if trying to judge Mbege and his intentions based on the action. Whatever, let him judge away. Mbege had never been a complex man, and he meant nothing more by the gesture than to draw Murphy’s attention to the wound. Murphy slowly lifts the rag to his face and presses it over the injury. 

“Thanks.”

“Don’t mention it. Really. Don’t. Just let me pass out for a bit before they send us to our fate.” Mbege vaguely hears a comment from Murphy after that, but he closes his eyes and consciousness slips away in a heartbeat. His final thought before complete blackness takes over his mind is that if the Gods have any favour for him at all, he’ll have been hit hard enough over the head that he won’t wake up from this nap.

```

The Gods hate him.

That’s what Mbege decides when he wakes up with dirt pressed against his cheek, and a foot impacting his ribs sharply. He flinches away from the blow and struggles to his feet, ready for a fight before he remembers that the fuzziness in his mind is courtesy of his abduction, not of too much wine the night prior. His senses come back to him as rough hands slide a rope through the collar around his neck, like attaching a leash to a dog. He glares at all the men in the cell, but his gaze ends up settling on Murphy.

“You couldn’t have woken me up before he kicked me?” He asks the other slave, who is already standing in nothing but his _subligaria_ , ready for the market.

“Hey, you were dead to the world.” Murphy holds his hands up in mock surrender with a smirk. “I even tried to convince these lovely fellows that you were actually dead, but they’re not much for intelligent conversation or persuasion.”

Mbege glances at the two brutes again, the same men who had thrown them into the cell yesterday, and nods with a small grunt. They don’t seem to care about his and Murphy’s conversation, they simply link Murphy and Mbege’s collars and lead them out of the cell. The passageway they travel is just as dull as the cell had been, poorly maintained stone and dirt forming it.

The other batches of slaves are already standing outside, watched over by a few more men who are virtually indistinguishable from those who walk next to Mbege. They all stand, shifting slightly on occasion but not making a noise or raising their eyes from the ground. To attempt to rebel or escape now, in broad daylight and with the city bustling around them would be suicide. They might escape Wallace’s men, but the city guards would definitely catch them. 

Mbege accepts this the same as the rest of them, but he refuses to drop his gaze. Let the world see that he’s angry, let those whom he had once called neighbours know that he had been sold by his family to pay off their debts. Most of the people passing ignore him anyway, but he’s willing to risk that one small act of rebellion. When Wallace himself walks around inspecting them briefly, he clicks his tongue in disapproval at Mbege’s defiant manner, but he does nothing. He doesn’t even do anything more than glare at Murphy, directly to Mbege’s right, who also keeps his chin held high. They may be sold to other men, forced to call one of them _Dominus_ , but they would never truly be slaves.

Wallace doesn’t say anything, simply turns and begins heading off towards the slaver’s market. His brutes follow, as do the slaves. Their procession is ignored by everyone around them, save a few glances that Mbege meets with a challenge in his stare. He dares them to see the slaves as people, rather than cattle being herded through busy streets. But, as the sun bakes down on them and the scent of hot stone becomes ever more prevalent, he knows none of them do. He knows this, because when he was free, such a short time ago, he never thought twice about the slaves, other than to resent those wealthy enough to be able to afford them.

It’s not far from where they were held to the platforms where they will be auctioned off. There are already rich men lounging against the pillars surrounding the courtyard, identifiable by their bright robes made of material light and fine enough to be disturbed by the gentle breeze. This sets them apart from their body slaves, collared in various materials and styles, whose robes hung heavy against their bodies. Only the rich could afford comfort in the ever increasing heat. 

Mbege doesn’t bother studying the rich men, one of whom would demand the title of _Dominus_ from him before the end of the day. He directs his attention instead to those who stand just behind them. Their slaves, and on rare occasion, wives. Here, he looks for barely concealed bruises, or makeup applied slightly too heavily around the eyes. He looks for those who are cowering, rather than simply showing subservience. The men standing before anyone showing those signs of abuse, he marks in his mind, and prays that he will not be bought by. If he must bow his head and call a man Master, let it be a man, not a monster.

Mbege feels their eyes assessing him, and he squares his bared shoulders, holding himself tall. He won’t cower beneath their gaze, folding in on himself to try and escape it. Mbege may not be reckless enough to attempt to flee, but he is enough of a fool to draw their attention to him. Of course, any looks he draws may not rest solely on him, considering the slight smaller, freshly wounded man next to him.

The slaves are tied to massive rings driven into the walls, in strings of five. They aren’t really secured, but once again, there’s enough Romans around to guarantee compliance. Murphy and Mbege are linked to three other men, hulking Gauls brought to market by another slaver, who trades a joke and a causal pat on the back with Wallace. Mbege doesn’t bother attempting to speak with them. It would only cause trouble, and he has no real desire for interaction either.

The auctions proceed quite quickly, faster than Mbege would have thought. It turns out that the purchase of another human being is actually a rather simple affair, and the auctioneer seems to know exactly when he’s received the highest price for a slave, only pushing the bidding higher when there’s someone in attendance who ultimately ends up rising to it. The sun hasn’t even reached its zenith, shining into the courtyard in patches through the architecture surrounding them, when Mbege is led onto the stage with Murphy and the three Gauls behind him.

The wood beneath his feet is worn smooth, splinters and rough edges long since removed by those who had crossed it before him. He wonders briefly how many people had been sold here. It had never seemed important before, but now the fact that people are a commodity like leather or meat is the strangest concept to him. That those who live free can ignore the oddity of that is such a simple fact of life, yet it strikes Mbege as completely wrong now. To think, the difference a few days can make.

It’s fifteen steps to cross the stage, and then Mbege turns to his right, facing the small crowd. He meets the eyes of anyone who looks at him, and some even hold his gaze for a moment, as if evaluating him based on that. The other men turn to face the audience as well, the largest Gaul requiring a sharp shove from one of the men who had led them onto the platform. He gnashes his teeth in rebellion at the contact, and a slight chuckle ripples through the gathered people. They find his ferocity amusing, while Mbege finds it pointless. It may be tempting to bite at the hands of their captors, but as Murphy had proved the previous night, it yields nothing but more pain in return.

“For the consideration of the distinguished _Lanistae_ gathered here today, our first batch of fearsome men, destined for greatness in the arena!” The auctioneer’s voice is too loud and shrill in Mbege’s ear, causing his head to throb slightly, but he doesn’t flinch from it. “The first slave for auction today hails from exotic lands, the names of which no Roman tongue has ever formed.”

_I actually come from three streets down, I can see the butcher I visit every day just through that entryway, thank you very much._ Mbege seethes silently at the assumption that he’s a foreigner. He was born free under the Roman Empire, to free Roman parents. Sure, his skin is darker than most he passed in the streets, but it isn’t unusual for people from foreign lands to settle in Rome, his grandparents having been counted among the ranks of humble immigrants. The assumption that he himself was either a prisoner of war or an immigrant is one that he despises, even if many others may not see it as an insult. But to Mbege, he believes himself to be as thoroughly Roman as the next man, and being called “exotic” rubs him the wrong way entirely.

In the end, he’s so caught up in his anger that he doesn’t hear how much he sold for, he simply sees the smile on the face of the man who placed the winning bid. He remains as part of the line, brought on as a group but sold individually to separate _ludi_. Murphy is purchased by the same man who bought him, pitched by the auctioneer as “the mongrel cur who fears not the lash, a ferocity that his opponents ought to fear”, and the three Gauls are purchased by another man, who smirks at Mbege’s now-owner as he hands over more than twice Murphy’s price for each of the Gauls. 

They are lead off with as much care as was taken leading them onto the stage, and Mbege follows the man in front of him easily. He hates having to follow someone, hates that he’s being sold as property to another man, but he tries not to show it. Mbege will save that hatred to carry him through his training, so that he may unleash it upon those unfortunate enough to face him in the arena. If he must be a slave, Mbege is glad he’s a gladiator. At least the way he would serve his _Dominus_ is with blood and pain, rather than subservience or his body.

The Gauls are separated from Murphy and Mbege and lead to a sort of pen where slaves are standing idly, waiting for their new Masters to come and claim them when they finish their purchases for the day. But Murphy and Mbege are handed directly over to the man who had purchased them, a Roman with robes slightly less remarkable than those around him, yet still better than any Mbege had even laid his eyes upon. 

He sizes up the man in front of him, then one who had purchased the rights to Mbege’s life. His dark hair is combed back, slightly longer than what was usually considered fashionable, yet it seems to suit him. He smiles at Mbege and Murphy, and the smile seems genuine, not cruel or taunting. Other than that, he seems fairly normal. There’s only one slave following him in attendance, large and muscular enough to be a bodyguard, but one who seemed to have a hint of intelligence about him.

“You now belong to the house of Marcus Kane, but so long as you train hard and fight harder, I shall never ask more of you than to call me _Dominus_ and fight for the glory of my house.” Marcus -presumably, unless the head of the household had sent a servant to purchase slaves for him- takes the rope from the slaver and hands it to his bodyguard. He holds Mbege’s gaze until he nods, and then does the same with Murphy, who laughs and shakes his head, muttering “Whatever” under his breath, before nodding his comprehension of the situation.

And like that, with one simple sentence and the exchange of a few coins, Mbege is a possession. Yet it doesn’t feel like it, not really. He guesses it would be more real had he tried to fight against Marcus, or spoken. Then he would have been punished, publicly and violently, as only a slave is punished. In that case, he would probably feel like an object. But right now, as he follows the man who he ought to call _Dominus_ , he feels more like a soldier. If it weren’t for the collar around his neck and the vague knowledge that he isn’t completely free in his actions, he might not have minded the situation. He was going to be fed, sheltered, and trained, and all he had to do in exchange was hurt and kill people. It actually seemed better than the situation he had been taken from, except for the fact that while he is doing those things, he is nothing more than a slave.

The route they take out of the core of the city brings them past the arena. Its walls, which hide the view of the stained sands within, stretch towards the heavens, but Mbege doesn’t do more than glance at it. He sees Murphy staring at it, though, and he hears the other man huff a derisive snort at the building. 

“To think those walls are worth my freedom.” The sentiment is whispered, barely audible, but the man holding their rope tenses still. Mbege wonders if Murphy’s nose is ever going to be allowed to heal, because he gets the impression that he’s not the best at keeping his mouth shut. The guard doesn’t do anything in that moment, though, and they swiftly leave the arena behind them.

The roads become less and less populated as their feet keep a steady pace over the stone paths, which gradually grow rougher. They’re approaching the outskirts of the town now, beyond which the poorly maintained streets turn to rubble, and then to dirt. They don’t leave the city quite yet, though, instead skirting around its edges until they come into the shadow of a mountain. It’s there that they leave the small homes of the city and follow a path that climbs steeply. It isn’t too far outside of the city that they come to a wall and a large iron gate. The sounds of men fighting can be heard from the path, long before their forms can be glimpsed through the metal bars.

The household of the lanista rises above the wall, looking down on the training ground of the _ludus_. The entire complex seems to be constructed quite well, and decently maintained, but it doesn’t appear as luxurious as Mbege would have thought. This is the home of a man who buys and fights slaves for a living, yet from the outside the home seems fairly ordinary for a decently well off family, ignoring the size and the training facilities. Perhaps that is where Marcus spends most of his money, or perhaps the home above is far more lavish on the inside.

Mbege turns his mind from thoughts of the opulence or lack thereof in his _Dominus’_ life as they pass through the gate. Inside, roughly twenty men stop their practicing, close enough to being in unison that the effect is quite eery. They turn to watch Mbege and Murphy as they are lead across the sand - for the dirt of the mountainside has been replaced with sand within the gated enclosure - towards another set of cells, their gazes speaking of nothing but trouble. These are men who kill for a living, and they will count none among them who they consider weak. Let them stare, Mbege has been considered many things in his life, but never weak. He resolutely ignores them as they pass, and he hears the crack of a whip when the training grounds are behind him, along with a shouted order to resume training.

“Get them settled.” With those words, Marcus departs, leaving them just inside a dimly lit passageway. The slave who had been entrusted with them simply nods and walks deeper into the hall, away from the torturous sun. It becomes moderately cooler as they walk forward, the stone walls must be thick enough to block the sun, rather than turning the entire place into a large oven.

The man leading them doesn’t offer any conversation, and Mbege doesn’t feel any sort of desire to initiate it. But, as they walk past empty cells, the inhabitants of which are probably outside currently, Murphy speaks up.

“So, do we get to know where we’re going, or is your silence just part of your charm, big guy?” Mbege sighs quietly. He really hopes that he won’t get hit with the backlash when Murphy pisses everyone off.

Their guide is silent for a few moments until they stop outside of a cell in which a few apparently unbranded slaves are lounging about. He opens the door and removes the rope from their collars, although the collars themselves remain firmly in place.

“You’ll be living in here until you prove yourselves worthy of better accommodations.” Mbege shrugs and walks into the cell without comment. Now he has a goal, at least. To win a room that has more than a dirt floor for comfort, and fewer than six other men in it. The door closes and locks behind them with a small smile from the slave who had led them there. “If you ever prove worthy, that is.”

Mbege sees a dark look flit over Murphy’s features for a moment, but the other man is soon gone from sight and so Murphy just sighs and moves to one of the walls, sitting in an unoccupied patch of floor and leaning back. “Man, why are the pretty ones always assholes?”

He doesn’t seem to be asking the question to anyone in particular, or really expecting an answer, but Mbege chuckles as he takes a seat across from him. The same sort of question could be directed at Murphy himself. Even with the fresh wounds on his face and blackened eyes next to a bruised and crooked nose, Murphy isn’t any less attractive. And always seems to need to talk.

“I wouldn’t let Bellamy hear you call him pretty, if I were you.” A man with a closely trimmed beard and skin almost of a shade with Mbege’s own comments from the corner. “He’s Kane’s personal guard, and the only gladiator to have ever been elevated to household staff in this _ludus_. And the only reason why he still has those good looks is because no opponent in the arena was ever able to wound him grievously enough for it to scar. I doubt he would take kindly to your assessment of him.”

“Hm. Doesn’t change the facts, but maybe I’ll guard my tongue around him.” Mbege cocks an eyebrow in disbelief at that, and Murphy huffs a small laugh in his direction. “You’re right, probably not.” He directs his attention to the one who had spoken earlier, giving him a small wave. “I’m Murphy, by the way, and this grouch is Mbege.”

“Miller.” The man returns the wave and then gestures at the others in the cell. “Here you’ve got Sterling, Artigas, Jasper, and Monty.”

Sterling and Artigas simply grunt and give a brief flick of their hand to indicate which one they are as Miller introduces them, Jasper waves and says “Hello”, and Monty does the same with a smile. Mbege studies them briefly. If they all survive the training, they’ll be brothers. But looking at how slender Monty and Jasper are, and the nervous twitching of Sterling’s foot, Mbege doubts that he’ll have to remember all of their names. Still, they might surprise him. He hasn’t seen them fight or even stand up yet, so he wasn’t in much of a position to judge them.

“So, does the grouch speak, or do you speak for him?” Jasper directs the question at Murphy.

“He speaks.” Mbege responds to Jasper’s question, his tone perhaps a little more brusque than it needed to be. But he’d already been assumed to be a foreigner, being assumed mute didn’t inspire him to be pleasant. “And _no one_ speaks for me.”

“See? Grouch. Only reason he talked to me in the first place was to tell me to shut up.” Murphy cuts off any form of response, and escalation of the response to the ultimately harmless question, with a small smile on his face. 

For some reason, Mbege can’t find it in him to be upset with Murphy for nicknaming him ‘the grouch’, a name he fears will stick around. Maybe it’s because he doesn’t seem to be malicious about it, or maybe it’s the fact that they were taken by the same slaver and thus have some form of bond. At the very least, they’ve shared more similar experiences than he and anyone else in this cell, at this point. So instead of saying anything more in response, Mbege just grunts and leans his head back against the wall. He’s still desperately tired, and if any of what he’s heard about gladiator training is true, he wants to be well rested before they begin tomorrow.

“So, you seem to know things, Miller. Got any advice that will help me not die in training?” Mbege allows his eyes to drift shut as the conversation turns towards rumours and vague advice like “don’t show your fear”. He finds the back and forth between Miller and Murphy, with occasional less than helpful comments from Jasper, or slightly helpful comments from Monty, oddly comforting. And the stone is cool against skin that had been in the sun too long today, and the dirt beneath him is not the most uncomfortable thing he’s used for a bed in the past. In short order, Mbege finds himself drifting into a sleep that feels far less like death than yesterday had. 

```

A sharp clanging draws Mbege out of his sleep, and he wakes without the disorientation of the day before. Now that his head seems to have healed, he knows exactly where he is and what he is.

_Slave_ , is the first whisper in his mind, quickly followed by a much firmer thought. _Gladiator_.

He looks up at the source of the noise to find Bellamy, the one who had led them to the cell last night, knocking on the bars. He scrambles to his feet as the others rouse themselves, the only other person to wake as quickly as him being Murphy. He wonders briefly what situation Murphy had come from, that he wakes up even faster than Mbege, who was used to needing to drag himself out of alleyways before guards or less desirable members of society stumbled upon him. But he puts the thought from his mind. They begin their training today, and he knows he will have to be focused.

“You’re supposed to be my brothers one day, and you can’t even wake up on time? Disappointing.” Mbege bites his tongue and settles for glaring at Bellamy, telling himself that he will _not_ get into trouble on his first day here. Murphy pats his shoulder as he passes him on his way to exit the cell.

“Easy, grouch, you’ll set him on fire if you glare at him that hard.” Mbege doesn’t respond, but he does follow Murphy out of the cell, and waits patiently next to the door for the rest of their group to do the same.

Sterling is the last to leave, and Bellamy locks the door behind him. Why he feels the need to lock an empty cage, Mbege isn’t sure. Maybe it’s just to show that he has the power over when they sleep and when they are allowed to roam the training grounds. Or maybe it’s just habit to lock every door as he uses it.

Either way, after the lock closes with a solid click, Bellamy leads them back out to the training grounds without further comment. It’s not exactly a complex route, left out of the gate and straight down until you hit sunlight. Or, what would be sunlight in about an hour or so. As the group of trainees steps into the open air, the sun is only just beginning to tease at the edges of the sky, and the still air is colder than one would expect, given how hot the days are. But the sands on which they will learn the ways of the gladiator are well ringed with torches, so no mistakes or missteps could be blamed on the lack of light. Although the torchlight shifts, as is in its nature, it is plentiful enough that the flickering is hardly noticeable.

The trainees line up under Bellamy’s silent instruction, in an eery mirror of the line Mbege had been a part of yesterday when he had been purchased. But this time, instead of facing wealthy Romans, they face a sort of dining hall set up under the villa itself. There are no torches to illuminate the tables, save the ones present around the sands, so deep shadows play tricks on Mbege’s eyes. They shift at random, and on occasion he thinks he sees forms moving between them.

Bellamy leaves them there, unlocking the gate that leads up to the villa and disappearing up a set of stairs. Mbege sees some of the others shifting in his peripheral vision, but he doesn’t turn his head to look at them. He keeps his eyes fixed on the shadows, because he is almost certain that there was a person behind that column, and he swears that the light shone upon the curve of a back at one point. As Mbege attempts to dissect the darkness and see if there are actually people lurking in it, as he suspects, Murphy proves his inability to keep his mouth shut once again.

“So, this is fun and exciting. And to think I was almost-” What Murphy was “almost” is never said, as his words are cut off by the crack of a whip shattering the relative calm. 

Mbege doesn’t jump at the sharp noise, nor does he start when the forms he had thought to be people within the shadows resolve themselves to be just that, the existing gladiators lurking just out of the glow of the torches. At the sound of the whip, they all take up positions of relative ease, leaning against columns or sitting casually on the steps. Except for one, who wears a weathered leather chest piece in addition to the _subligaria_ and cloth foot wrappings the others wear. He steps onto the sand in front of them, coiling his whip and returning it to place at his hip.

“You wish for excitement, recruit?” The other gladiators chuckle slightly at the question, and the whip wielder cocks an eyebrow. He paces before them for a moment, and Mbege takes the opportunity to study him. His muscles are evident, shifting obviously beneath dark skin laced with scars. Either he is a terrible warrior or one who has seen many fights, and Mbege is more inclined to believe the latter, given how easily he stalks the sands. A poor fighter wouldn’t hold himself so tall, or stand before them as if he was their _Dominus_ , not a slave like them. He stops in front of Murphy, shoulders set perpendicular, and looks directly over his shoulder at him.

“It would be nicer than standing around freezing my balls off.” There’s that smirk on Murphy’s lips again, and he fixes the whip wielder with a challenging look. Perhaps if he’d been paying more attention to the man’s stance than to being a smart-ass, Murphy would have been able to brace himself, but as it is, Mbege sees the tense of muscles just a moment before Murphy finds himself on his ass in the sand. He hits the ground hard, and Mbege hears the breath leave his lungs on impact. The gladiators roar with laughter as the whip wielder flexes the hand he’d struck Murphy’s chest with and walks back to stand in front of them once more.

“You will all have more excitement than you’ve ever wished for in your lives, I guarantee you.” He raises his voice, which carries through the air easily, and Mbege recognizes it as the one who had ordered everyone back to work when he’d arrived yesterday. So, this man must be their trainer, or something of the sort. “I am Wells, but none of you have earned the right to know me by that name, so put it from your thoughts. If you train hard enough, one day I may permit you to remember it. You will call me _Doctore_ , and you will heed my every command, or you will die in the arena, as so many men, more worthy of the title of Gladiator than you are, have done.”

He pauses for a moment and stares each one of them down. Sterling doesn’t meet his gaze, Monty and Jasper drop theirs in quick measure, but Artigas and Mbege hold his eyes for as long as he looks at them. Murphy is spared the challenging stare as he’s still gathering his breath, or perhaps he’s decided observing from the ground is more comfortable. Doctore doesn’t favour any of them with any indication of what was the correct response to his look, he simply nods and speaks again.

“You will start by building the muscles you all sorely need. There are logs over there.” He indicates a pile of rough wooden logs large enough to probably be referred to as ‘trees’ with a jerk of his chin. “Pick them up, and start walking laps of the grounds. Keep walking until I tell you to stop. If you fall, get back up. If you can’t, they’ll have use for you in the mines. Go.”

None of them need to be told twice, turning as soon as they’re told to. But Mbege pauses on his way to the pile of wood, reaching down to hold a hand out to Murphy. The man looks at it for a moment before clasping his wrist and allowing him to help him to his feet.

“Walking in circles, how exciting.” Murphy drawls sarcastically dusts some sand from his back, and Mbege walks over to begin their first task.

“You have no idea how to keep your mouth shut, do you?” Mbege hefts a log into his arms, picking the largest of the available loads. Doctore was right, they need the muscle, if the other gladiators are any indicator of the standard. While the smaller weights may make things easier on him, Mbege has a feeling that will only come back to bite him in the ass later on.

“Better than being a mute old grouch.” Murphy eyes the logs with distaste, as if giving them dirty looks will somehow make them smaller.

“I’m not mute nor old.” Mbege sets off at a steady walk as Murphy gives up on glaring at the wooden weights and actually picks one, a medium size that looks ridiculously large when hefted by Murphy’s slender arms. He must be stronger than he appears, though, because he catches up with Mbege in a few short moments before settling into stride beside him.

“But you are a grouch.”

Mbege simply responds with a grunt. He figures he should save his breath for the task at hand, and trying to get the last word in a conversation with Murphy seems like a futile task for him. He’d never been much for words, and Murphy had clearly never been one to use fewer words when more were available to him. Besides, he couldn’t really argue his status of ‘grouch’. Being kind and cheerful was never exactly his strongest characteristic.

Murphy interjects the occasional comment, which Mbege responds to primarily with a nod of his head or a small grunt for the first few laps. But then the sun rises properly in the sky, and the cool sand beneath their feet grows hot, scaldingly so with no reprieve from it. The gladiators, who had disappeared after Doctore had set them to their training, reappear, bringing with them a chorus of crude jokes and comments. Mbege simply grits his teeth, readjusts his weight in his grasp, and continues walking, each step getting progressively more difficult. 

The footprints of the trainees begin to grow longer with the dragging of their feet, and eventually they are all simply dragging furrows through the sand with their paces. But they keep walking, as the gladiators eat breakfast in the shade, and sip on water that would feel like nectar of the Gods on Mbege’s parched throat. The sun is cruel at the best of times, but now sweat courses down Mbege’s back, and even the slight breeze rustling the leaves of the trees just outside the complex does nothing to cool him. His stomach burns, feeling as if it is digesting itself in lieu of actual food, and Mbege can’t actually think of much. There’s simply the action of setting one foot in front of the other, repeated unto infinity. 

He vaguely notices the gladiators retrieving swords, shields, and blunted replicas of whatever weapon they use in the arena, and taking up practice within the circular trench being dug by the plodding feet of Mbege and the others. But even that small distraction quickly fades from notice, and Mbege’s mind slips back into the gnawing red that seems to embody this task to him.

_Left foot, right foot._

The sun is burning punishment from the Gods.

_Left foot, right foot._

The sand beneath him is white, but to him it seems as red as the coals whose heat it embodies.

_Left, right._

His muscles are screaming, each fiber a thread of red hot pain.

_Left, right._

The air that flows to his lungs shreds at his throat, dragging every molecule of moisture from his being. His breath tastes of blood.

_Left, right._

The knowledge that he is subjecting himself to this because he is a slave, and his actions are not his own, clouds his mind with rage for a moment. 

_Left, righ-_

Sterling stumbles. It’s a shock enough for Mbege to actually see, and realize that his posture was drooping perilously close to the ground too. He straightens his back, although every inch of him begs him not to, and takes another step.

“Sterling!” A shout from Doctore is all that’s needed, and Sterling fumbles the log back into his grasp. This time, he manages to avoid being sent to the mines, but Mbege wonders if he’ll make it through to their first game. But then the monotonous torture of the task takes over his mind again, and Mbege doesn’t think of anything.

Monty stumbles twice, Jasper and Murphy once, and Sterling almost fails to keep moving after his third failure. But, to his credit, he does manage to get back up each time, even if it takes him longer and longer. Only Mbege and Artigas manage to complete their task without falling, although how, Mbege will never know. The brutal pace set for them by Doctore is the worst punishment Mbege has ever experienced, and he used to fight in the illegal street fighting rings when his parents needed the money. Which was to say, almost every week. 

“Cease!” Accompanied by the crack of a whip, the word is the most heavenly syllable Mbege has ever heard. He swears his joints creak when he relaxes enough to drop the log, and he feels light enough without it to float away, save the chains of agony binding him to the earth. Around him he hears groans of pain and pleasure as everyone else manages to straighten abused limbs for the first time in hours, and he knows his voice joins theirs, unbidden.

“Go, eat and drink, but be quick about it. You resume training presently.” With that, Doctore turns his attention back to those who have already proven themselves gladiators, and the trainees stumble off to the shade. Mbege is mildly surprised to see the Murphy is still at his side, even if he looks worse than Mbege feels.

As soon as the sun is barred from his skin by stone, and he has some porridge and water in hand, Mbege lies on the shaded stone floor and closes his eyes. It feels sinfully good to allow some of the heat to drain from his body, and simply not standing is like a luxury to him now. He barely lifts his head to down his ration of water, and doesn’t even bother that much to spoon the thick paste that is their lunch into his mouth. Although his appetite is long gone, he knows he needs to eat, and after the first few bites it starts to feel less like a chore.

“Starting to regret biting that asshole of a slaver, if I’m being honest.” Mbege hears the now familiar voice at his right shoulder, and he looks up to see Murphy sitting at a bench there, eating his food with more enthusiasm than Mbege had been able to muster. Mbege snorts and closes his eyes again.

“Oh, I’m glad you did it.” Mbege smiles slightly to himself.

“Really?”

“Yeah. With you and Sterling out there, there’s no way I’ll be sent to the mines.” Murphy kicks his shoulder with a small laugh, and Mbege hears a vague offended “Hey!” from somewhere to his left, presumably Sterling protesting the concept of being sent to the mines.

“I think I like you better as a mute, grouch.”

“It does tend to keep me out of trouble. Although I having a feeling standing too close to you will land me in enough shit anyway.”

“True enough.” Murphy snorts at that, and then their brief reprieve is cut off by a sound that Mbege is getting mixed feeling towards, the crack of the whip that both begins and ends their torture. He pushes himself up with a groan and stumbles back to the sands, prepared as well as he can be for whatever torture in the guise of training they’ll be set next.

```

The days of their training are hardly distinguishable from each other. The tasks vary, but the intensity of them does not. While sword work is lighter than carrying weights, it leaves them all nursing bruises and a few broken bones and ribs on their first attempts. Their weight training increases in intensity whenever their muscles begin to grow used to it. They run obstacle courses, do pushups, practice hand to hand combat, and do anything else Doctore asks of them. 

The first night was hell, every position on the dirt floor seeming more agonizing than the last. But exhaustion had won out before long. When they woke the next morning, they had all learned they knew nothing of pain before that moment. If their muscles had been complaining the night before, they were rioting in the morning. The simple act of walking from their cell to the training grounds threatened to make Mbege vomit, and judging by the pallor of his comrades, he wasn’t the only one feeling that way. 

The second day of training was pure hell, and the third was even worse. Doctore’s whip stung the back of anyone who took too long to return to a task, and it found Mbege’s own more than once. Each time drew a growl from his lips, and a determination never to let it happen again. True to his word, he never received punishment for the same task twice, something that could not be said for many of the others.

As the days passed, counting them became pointless. They all fell into a deep sleep immediately after being let into their cell, regardless of their injuries, and they woke moments before their door was unlocked the next morning. It took about a week before they were all waking to the first sounds of footsteps, but they found it was infinitely nicer than waking to banging on their bars, and insults. From the time they woke to the time they slept, they were in agony, which became worse day by day.

Until, one day, Mbege wakes feeling slightly better than he had the previous day. It’s such a foreign feeling, not being in pain. Well, that’s actually a lie. He’s still in pain, just a manageable amount. He’s sore, rather than feeling as if his muscles had been flayed, and his skin replaced with nettle. He kicks his foot out, nudging Murphy’s ankle until the man wakes with a sigh.

“The fuck do you want?” Murphy doesn’t roll over or even open his eyes as far as Mbege can tell.

“How do you feel today?” Murphy rolls over at the question and pushes himself up, glaring at Mbege.

“Pissed off at you for waking me.” He shrugs his shoulders slightly as Mbege nods, accepting the sentiment. He would be pissed too, although they’ll probably be woken soon anyway. “I guess I feel fine?”

Mbege smiles at that, and Murphy returns his smile as he realizes what that means. He extends his arm, and they clasp forearms. “We’ll survive this yet.”

“That we will.” Murphy pauses for a moment before allowing his smile to grow slightly more and squeezing his hand slightly. “Brother.”

Mbege nods as they release their grasp. Murphy is more his brother, his family, than any who had ever been related to him by blood. It’s a strange feeling, to realize there’s someone who actually understands him, has been through even a fraction of what he’s been through, and would be happy to stand next to him after all that. Strange, but decidedly good.

Familiar footsteps approach the cell and the others around them all groan and clamber to their feet, although the groaning seems to be less from pain and more from a desire for sleep. Mbege and Murphy are the first two out the door, and they make their way to the training grounds without prompting from Bellamy. 

It’s a shock when they step onto the sand in full sunlight. They had been training from before dawn till after dusk before now, and it feels almost wrong to now be up before the sun. The sands are already warm, and the gladiators are sitting and having their morning meal. The trainees file onto the sand and stand about in confusion at the lack of direction, since Doctore is nowhere to be found. That is, until they hear a familiar voice from the shade.

“Do you not want to eat?” Doctore is sitting by himself at a table, spooning his porridge up with bread. All of the gladiators and recruits eat the same tasteless mash of grains and vegetables, but only the gladiators who had passed the test and been brought into the brotherhood were allowed a ration of soft bread to go along with it.

It takes a moment before they realize that today, they’re allowed to eat with the gladiators, a privilege they had not been granted before. Admittedly, Mbege had paid very little mind to those whose ranks he would hopefully be joining one day soon. The trainees and the gladiators were kept on separate schedules, so unless he studied them during his own practice time, he had very little interaction with them. And to allow his attention to stray from the given task was to beg for the sting of Doctore’s whip, so he had never done it.

Jasper and Monty are the first to hesitantly start towards the shade, and the promise of food. But the rest of them quickly follow, and they grab their meals in silence. They could sit at the empty table with Doctore, or attempt to sit with any of the others, but hostile glares from the gladiators seem to warn against that. So the trainees sit on the steps, out of the shade, but still more relaxing than training. 

Mbege takes up a position that allows him to glance over the gladiators on occasion. He’s actually relatively surprised at the range of people he sees. There are some more slender than Murphy, or bulkier than Bellamy or Doctore. Perhaps Marcus - _Dominus_ , he must start thinking of him as _Dominus_ , even if he hasn’t seen the man since he was purchased - attempts to cover all his grounds with his gladiators. A valuable strategy, to field fewer, yet more skilled and diverse warriors.

Mbege has hardly eaten his first spoonful of food when he receives an actual shock. Another group of people enters the dining area, collecting the rations of gladiators, and sitting with the men gathered there with ease. They are even dressed mostly the same, save for one small difference. Where the gladiators all bare their chests during training, only donning chest pieces in the arena, these people have coarse linen and leather bound around their chests. Specifically, actually, binding their breasts flat.

“What are women doing here?” Mbege keeps his voice low, uncertain of how such a question would be received. But his comrades hear him clearly, and they all glance over their shoulders in unison, save Murphy, who steals a spoonful of Artigas’ porridge when they’re distracted, with a wink in Mbege’s direction.

“Oh, them.” Miller is the only one who doesn’t seem surprised, and Mbege wonders how all of them had been so focused as to have not noticed the presence of women amongst them. They had been given very little interaction with the actual gladiators, if you can call sharing the same training yard “interaction”, but still, surely one of them ought to have noticed. Miller returns his attention to his food for a moment before elaborating. “They’re the Harpies. Female gladiators, undefeated in the arena because they’re quicker and more agile than the men, or so I’ve heard. Monroe, Harper, Fox, and Octavia, the last being Bellamy’s little sister.”

“How is it that you know all this, Miller?” Murphy’s the one who asks the question, although it’s an echo of what Mbege has thought more than once.

“I was born into this household, among the slaves. Mother got sick, and _Dominus_ gave me a choice. Pay off the price of her treatment by fighting in the arena, or let her die.” Miller shrugs as if being given such an ultimatum was nothing of note. “You learn stuff up in the villa, even when you’re not supposed to. I figure it’ll help me in the arena, I already know much about the workings of the games, and the strengths and weaknesses of the more famous gladiators.”

“I’m sure you’ll pay off her treatments in no time.” Jasper pats Miller’s knee with a small smile, and Miller returns it. 

Mbege returns his attention to the women, or the Harpies, as Miller had called them. He supposes he can see the worth of fighting female gladiators. Men might misunderestimate them, and he’d certainly known enough bloodthirsty women in his life to know that the concept of them being gentler than men was a great falsehood. Murphy bumps his knee against Mbege’s from his seat next to him, a position he always seemed to be in. From the moment they had stepped out to be sold, Murphy had always been next to Mbege.

“Sizing up your chances with one of them?” Murphy shoots him a sly smile, and Mbege shakes his head with a smile of his own.

“Hardly. Women have never aroused my passions in that manner. Although I would be interested to fight one of these so called Harpies, I can imagine it would be a valuable lesson.” Murphy hums slightly at that, as if processing the information. Mbege never thought anything of it. Being attracted to one’s own sex was hardly a sin or a crime, and there had never been any pressure on him to marry for the sake of prosperity or passing on his lineage.

“Well, perhaps you’ll face one of them in the test.” Murphy shoots a gaze at Octavia, who’s in the middle of telling a story and ripping her bread apart in illustrations of…. something that doesn’t bear further thought. He claps a hand on Mbege’s knee. “May the Gods have mercy on you if that’s the case.”

They share a small laugh at his solemn tone before finishing their meal and starting their work for the day. After that day, the snap of Doctore’s whip become less frequent, until it is heard no more. And after that, comes the test.

```

Murphy turns out to be the worst kind of prophet. The trainees all draw lots to determine the order with which they will face one of the existing gladiators, fighting to determine if they’ve learned enough to be brothers with those who have spent years slaving in the arena. Mbege, of course, draws the short straw and ends up being the first to step into the ring of stone that mark the testing grounds. And of course, the _Dominus_ calls out who is to be his opponent.

“Octavia, take to the sands.”

The smile on Octavia’s face as she steps over the stones is nothing short of predatory. Ever since Mbege had learned of the Harpies, he had taken a few moments to watch them in practice, and he had learned that they trained just as hard as any of the men, and they were relentless in their attacks. And Octavia was their leader by being superior in strength and agility to any of them.

Why did Murphy have to be right?

“The rules are simple. Survive until a draw is called, or force your opponent out of the circle. If you are forced from the circle, or dealt what would be a lethal blow, you go to the mines.” Doctore announces the rules for the third time. He had told them the previous night, and once again at breakfast, and now right before the test itself. Mbege knows what he has to do, what he will do to prove his worth. If he can last through this fight, he earns the right to risk his life in the arena. The thought might have seemed strange to him at one time, that fighting for his life would be an honour, but it is next to impossible to pass through the gladiator training without inheriting a small fraction of their fervor. 

“You got this, grouch.” Mbege hears the encouragement from behind him as Octavia bares her teeth and crouches slightly, gladius held firmly in hand. She doesn’t use a shield, relying on her speed to get her out of the way of attacks. Mbege adopts the more traditional stance, with a gladius in his right hand and a shield on his left arm.

There’s a moment of tension in which nerves war within Mbege, faced suddenly with a battle that will win him a future or condemn him to a horrible death, wasting away in the mines. But then Octavia begins to circle him, searching for a weakness, and he mirrors her paces. His nerves fade as the familiar feel of sand underfoot soothes him, and his body shifts slightly behind his shield. He knows this, he’s suffered for who knows how long in order to be in this moment. The world narrows to just him, Octavia, and the ring of stones that he must not cross. It’s almost peaceful.

And then Octavia strikes. He sees the quickest hint of the attack in her muscles before she moves, and he raises his shield to take the blow, setting his heels into the sand to avoid being forced backwards. But she doesn’t strike with force, simply slashing at his shield before falling back again, testing his reactions. If he lets her, she’ll learn everything about him with just a few blows.

So he doesn’t let her. Mbege dashes forward, pressing his attack and swinging his sword down. It slices through empty air where Octavia had been moments prior, but he hadn’t intended for that attack to really work. He knew he would never win this fight on the defensive, she would end up driving him from the circle. No, he would have to use all the skills Doctore had taught them.

He turns his body quickly to face Octavia again, but not quite quick enough to avoid a blow to his right shoulder. It barely hurts, the fight dulling the pain as he knew it would. He charges again, hoping to cause Octavia to roll the same as she had the previous time. And she does, probably assuming he’ll try the same tactic over and over until either it works or he fails the test. Except this time, her evasive roll is aborted as he swings his gladius in her path. The collision of wood is loud in the night air, and Octavia grunts as she forces his sword away in order to spring to her feet.

A few more strikes land on Mbege’s shield, and he gains several bruises when he doesn’t move quite quickly enough. But he scores a few hits of his own on the seemingly untouchable Octavia, once he realizes her pattern for evasion. Each successful connection of his sword with her flesh inspires a frenzy in her for a moment, during which Mbege accepts the damage on his shield briefly before ducking out of reach. Their fight continues on relatively even footing for what seems like an eternity to Mbege, but what was realistically probably no more than a few minutes.

“Cease!” Doctore’s voice breaks the trance of battle, and Mbege turns to face him, checking briefly to make sure his feet are within the boundaries. It would be just his luck to have accidentally stepped over the stones and sentenced himself to the mines. But there’s a hint of a smile on Doctore’s face, and he gives Mbege a small nod. “It is a draw.”

The trainees cheer, although the gladiators remain silent. They give him respectful nods, however, and Mbege feels as if golden fire is racing through his veins as he steps from the circle. He can’t help the smile on his face, and Murphy throws an arm around his shoulders in an embrace.

“Well done, grouch, I knew you had it in you.” Mbege nods, and then pushes Murphy away.

“Now it’s your turn to prove you’re not as useless as you look, brother.” Murphy shoots Mbege a smile before he steps into the ring, his opponent facing him. He’s up against Lincoln, one of the larger gladiators, who is amazingly kind outside of the sands, but once he is on them, all bets are off. 

Murphy fights with a shield as well, although he loses it in the first few moments of battle and faces Lincoln’s dual wielded swords with just a gladius. But Murphy is slight, even with the muscle they’d built up during training, and he evades Lincoln’s attacks in a pattern that is easy for Mbege and those outside of the ring to see, but not so easy for Lincoln to notice.

Through his dodges and rolls, Murphy manages to lure Lincoln - there’s no other word for it, really, his actions are obvious from outside of the fight - to where Murphy’s discarded shield lies, partially buried in the sand. It’s perilously close to the edge of the ring, a fact which Murphy exploits. As soon as Lincoln sets foot on the shield in his pursuit of Murphy, Murphy reverses his course in order to duck beneath Lincoln’s swords. He receives a blow to the back that sounds painful, but in the end, Lincoln ends up outside of the ring of stones, the shield which Murphy had pulled from beneath his feet to trip him held triumphantly in the hands of the victor.

Mbege cheers along with the rest, and he pulls Murphy into a proper hug when the other returns. Perhaps the hug lasts slightly longer than what is typically considered friendly, but no one notices, their attentions all focused on the tests. They break their embrace just as Sterling attempts his first attack. And fails.

The first to fail the test is also the first to die in training. Sterling, who had never been the most coordinated fighter amongst them, ends up being driven back towards the boundary quickly, and he slips at exactly the wrong time. One of the stones drives into the back of his skull, just hard enough, at just the right angle that they all know he’s not just knocked unconscious. Mbege knows he should feel something for his fallen comrade, but really, he’s just disappointed.

“Better than dying in the mines.” Murphy mutters next to him, and Mbege agrees. Sterling’s body is removed without comment, and Doctore calls the next trainee to the ring, and _Dominus_ announces his partner. The tests continue, and Mbege learns a bit of what death means to the gladiators. It doesn’t seem to mean much, other than the person met their match. Perhaps they would have mourned if Sterling had been among their ranks when he passed. Perhaps not.

The rest of the trainees pass without issue, and they are all lead to a brazier with a brand heating in it. MK, the initials of their master, soon to be burned into their flesh for as long as they live. They line up in the order with which they passed their tests, without prompting from Doctore. Mbege doesn’t mind going first, the brand is far easier than the test.

He grits his teeth as Doctore presses the heated iron into his forearm, and he tries to ignore the scent of his own flesh cooking. But the brand is soon removed, just as the pain begins to remind him of that first morning of training, what seems like a lifetime ago. This time, when Mbege stands, the gladiators cheer. They celebrate him as a brother now, bound to them by blood and pain. He joins them with a smile, and turns to watch the rest of his comrades receive the brand. Jasper, who’s second to last, looks like he’s going to be sick, until Monty, who holds the rear of the lines, leans forward and whispers something in his ear. Whatever it was, Jasper manages to walk forward and receive his brand without incident.

The gladiators cheer with each brother that is branded, and when Monty finally gets his mark, they usher everyone into the hall where they usually consume their meals. Slaves, not gladiators, move around the walls, lighting torches that had been left dark until after the testing. And as the light grows, it becomes clear why.

“Wine!” Miller smiles widely and claps Mbege on the back as he surges forward with the rest. It seems that the welcoming of new members into the brotherhood is a cause for much celebration, and liberal consumption of alcohol. And, as they all get their drinks and the festivities begin, women who walk into the room barely clothed.

Mbege steals a flask of wine from the main stockpile as the men celebrate the arrival of whores with ribald shouts and makes his way over to where he had seen Murphy last. He, thankfully, find his friend without a woman in his lap, and Murphy seems glad to see him, and gladder still to see the wine.

“So the grouch does know how to have fun!” Mbege smiles as he pours glasses of wine for both of them, the atmosphere of the room already intoxicating in it’s own way. They drain them in short order, and he refills them.

“You know, you can stop calling me a grouch any time you want.” Murphy laughs and throws an arm around Mbege’s shoulders again, but the gesture feels… different from when he had done it after the test. Perhaps it’s the wine, or the sounds of pleasure filling the air as the men around him take their choice of the women, but it feels significantly less brotherly.

“Oh, but you are a grouch.”

“Not to you.” The words seemed innocent until they had left Mbege’s mouth, and then he finds himself blushing. _It must be the wine_ , he tells himself, as he drinks another cup if only to have something to blame his behaviour on.

“Awww, do you like me?” Murphy teases him, and Mbege groans.

“Oh, shut up. You know I didn’t mean it like that.” Liar.

“Really? Then how did you mean it?” Murphy’s grin is wicked, and Mbege knows he’s not getting out of this one. Once again, perhaps it’s the atmosphere, the alcohol, or the brand on his arm, but Mbege feels like he could take on the world. And if not the world, than at least one warrior boy, with scars on his cheeks and a nose that had healed slightly crooked.

Mbege turns towards Murphy and reaches up with his right hand, gently grabbing Murphy’s chin. There’s a hint of confusion on Murphy’s face before Mbege closes the small distance between them, pressing their lips together. For a moment, neither of them moves, and Mbege begins to worry. Worry that he’d ruined their friendship, because he wasn’t nearly drunk enough to blame _that_ on the wine. But then, before he can pull away and begin stammering an apology, Murphy places a hand on his knee. And then Murphy is kissing him back.

It’s tender at first, just the slow move of their lips together. Mbege slides his free hand up Murphy’s arm, the hand which had been holding his chin dropping to rest on his shoulder. As he traces his fingers up Murphy’s skin, they find where it’s broken, raw and disturbed by the heat which had been applied to it. Even the gentle probing of his fingers causes Murphy to hiss into the kiss, and Mbege is about to break it to apologize. But the pain seems to change the tone of their embrace, and rather than ruining it, Mbege’s accidental prodding of Murphy’s brand finds Murphy’s hand grasping the back of Mbege’s neck in order to deepen the kiss.

And Mbege is more than willing to do so. Their kiss turns more into a battle, with Mbege pressing his thumb into Murphy’s brand since it seems to excite him, and Murphy biting at Mbege’s lips, or digging his nails into Mbege’s skin. The pain ceases to be pain, serving only to heighten the pleasure of their embrace. It’s nothing compared to what they subject themselves to each day, anyway.

And then, just as Mbege is contemplating pulling Murphy into his lap, one of the gladiators pours a pitcher of wine over them with a cheer, before moving on to do the same with one of the other men who currently has a buxom woman riding him with abandon. Murphy and Mbege both gasp from the shock, and Murphy glares at the departing man.

“Asshole.” He growls, and begins to get up, but Mbege pulls him back down with a laugh.

“Let him go, Pretty Boy,” he lapses back into the first name he had ever thought of using on Murphy, “we have all the time in the world.”

Murphy still glares at the gladiator, but he takes his seat next to Mbege with no objection. Mbege refills their cups, absently noticing that they’re the only ones actually using cups and not just drinking straight from the jar. Tomorrow’s training was going to be interesting.

“Brothers!” The greeting is slightly slurred and shouted much louder than it needs to be as Jasper takes a seat across from them, Monty and a very uncomfortable Artigas in tow. 

“We should be training, not drinking.” Artigas grumbles, clearly the most sober of any of them. From the first day of their life under the house of Marcus Kane, Artigas had made it very clear that he actually wanted to be there, and that he would train harder than any of them for the glory to be won in the arena. Obviously the temporary diversion of a party would seem foolish to one as driven as he.

“Oh, lighten up, you’ll be challenging Mbege for the title of grouch if you keep that up!” Monty shoots Mbege a wink as he jokingly scolds Artigas, snagging Mbege’s wine and taking a swig for himself.

“I’m not that angry.” Mbege growls in response, reclaiming his wine roughly. He still had a touchy temper where anyone other than Murphy was concerned. Perhaps the fact that Murphy’s first action as far as Mbege had known him was to bite the slaver who had ripped him from his home had endeared him to Mbege. 

“He says, angrily-”

“-with an angry expression.” Jasper begins the teasing phrase, and Monty finishes it. They laugh and congratulate themselves with the most ridiculous gesture, involving pounding on their own chests and high fiving themselves. Artigas takes that opportunity to flee from Jasper’s grasp, and Mbege can’t help but feel a little bit happy when he immediately begins to practice on the sands. At least Artigas was straightforward and practical. Although he and Mbege would likely never be friends, he would love to stand next to Artigas in the arena one day. 

As the celebration increases in intoxication and violence, fights begin to break out, quickly spilling onto the sands where drunken wrestling becomes one of the amusements of the evening. And that, Mbege decides, is far more in line with what he would like to spend an evening doing, rather than being the butt of jokes for Murphy, Jasper, and Monty; the three most sarcastic people Mbege had ever had the misfortune to know. He can take a certain amount of good natured teasing, but eventually he excuses himself to go work his frustrations out with his fists.

The party lasts late into the night, and many gladiators and new brothers alike pass out wherever they find themselves. Miller ends up sleeping leaned up against Harper, Jasper and Monty pass out in a corner somewhere, and only Murphy and Artigas are in the cell when Mbege finally stumbles in, the pain of split knuckles and bruises dulled by the wine in his veins. When he drifts off to sleep, there’s a smile on his face. Perhaps, amongst these men who value blood and violence with a passion, Mbege has maybe found a place he belongs.

```

“Come on, grouch, watch your right side after a charge, you always leave it open.” Murphy pants out the advice, accompanying it with a sharp slap of his sword to the offending area. Mbege grits his teeth and readjusts his pose, knowing that Murphy’s right, but not liking his weakness being pointed out anyway.

“Come at me again, then.” Mbege taunts Murphy, who smiles and rubs the back of his hand across his nose with a sniff, a common tell for when he’s going to attack. He never does it in battle, of course, but training keeps to a slightly different pace where such unconscious gestures are permitted. 

Murphy charges him, teeth bared in a semblance of a smile, and Mbege guards himself properly this time. He knows Murphy’s attack pattern by heart, dual swords which Murphy had taken to using recently falling in the same rhythm each time.

_Right._ A blow caught on the shield.

_Left._ Mbege’s knocks the sword from Murphy’s grasp as it cuts through the air.

_Right._ Mbege surges forward, knocking Murphy’s remaining weapon to the side with his shield arm and pushing his friend to the ground. He stands above Murphy, panting with exertion, and holds his wooden blade to the other’s neck. It’s not as easy to knock Murphy down as it had been the first time they were paired. Although Mbege had put on a significant amount of muscle, so had Murphy, and they had both learned how to ground themselves better.

“And you, pretty boy, always attack in the same pattern. Right, left, right, then break away. Change it up sometimes.” Mbege lifts his sword and tosses it to his shield hand, extending his right arm to help Murphy to his feet. 

“Maybe I just wanted to let you get me on my back this time.” Murphy winks at him, and Mbege rolls his eyes.

“Sure, whatever you need to tell yourself. Just switch up you attack pattern before everyone knows it, I’d hate to see you die.”

“Aww, you do like me.”

“Hardly, I just need someone to run interference whenever Jasper and Monty get their hands on wine.” Murphy snorts, and they face each other again. Just as Mbege is about to push forward to attack, Doctore’s whip cuts through the air, and all the gladiators stop to pay him attention.

“Gladiators! Heed your _Dominus._ ” Mbege and Murphy cast their eyes up to the balcony of the villa, where the ever elusive Marcus Kane is standing. The only times Mbege has seen the man are when he was purchased, and during the testing. He wonders what the occasion is this time.

“Gladiators, as you may well know, the games of the Vulcanalia approach. I have secured twelve men in the games, including one in the primus, the reward for which is entry into a grand championship match, no quarter given, to be held in three moons time in an attempt to entreat the Gods to aid us in ending the Hunnic invasion that threatens in the East of Rome. The victor of those games will be granted the greatest purse of all.” Marcus pauses for a moment to look at each of them. “Freedom.”

The whispers among the gladiators start immediately, and Murphy and Mbege exchange an eager look. Being a gladiator was not the worst fate they could have suffered as slaves, but it was still evident that they were not free, at the end of the day. They slept in dirt cells, and everything they were gifted was at the whim of their _Dominus_. And while Marcus was a kind enough master, given that he was mostly absent from their lives, there was always the nagging threat at the edge of Mbege’s mind, that he could be sold if he didn’t perform well enough.

Doctore’s whip sounds again, and the conversations cease. Marcus nods at them before continuing. “For each set of games leading to the event, the victor of the primus will win entry. There will be other chances for each of you to win, if you set your minds and bodies to the task. The list of gladiators fighting in the Vulcanalia will be posted by the time you break for your meal.” Marcus nods one more time, and then departs.

“We need to get into a _primus_ before those games.” Murphy states the obvious as they return to training, and Mbege just nods. To win their freedom, they had to become worthy of such an honour quickly, and then they had to win against other champions who had already proved themselves in the arena. With that in mind, Mbege rushes forward. They don’t have a second of training to lose to idle speculation.

By the time they break for their meal, Mbege is sore, but in a good way. It’s the sort of ache that comes from exerting oneself fully, a pain which promises greater strength in the future. The gladiators all flock to the posted list, and Mbege shoves his way through them, looking for two names of the twelve. Many of the gladiators groan and turn away when they see their names are absent, but Mbege is not among them. He and Murphy are both to fight in the games.

He finds Murphy waiting for him with their meals, and he sits with a smile. “We have a chance to prove ourselves already.”

“We’re in the games?” At Mbege’s nods, Murphy smiles, the dangerous grin he wears only when he’s about to enter into a fight. “Good, then we’ll have to put on a fine show. When do we fight?”

“You’re the first game of the day, I’m the second.” Murphy groans at that, and Mbege understands why. To fight so early is hardly better than not fighting at all, the prizes are small and the crowds are usually not out in full force. But it is better than being absent, so Mbege is willing to accept it as a small victory.

“And who won the _primus?_ ” Mbege is about to answer, but cheering from the gathered gladiators, primarily those who possess slightly higher voices, answers that. Octavia thrusts her fist into the air and kisses the person nearest to her, a common habit for her after a victory. She would be fighting for the right to earn her freedom, and Mbege had very little doubt that she would win.

“Good luck to her, then. Hopefully we won’t have to face her in the freedom games themselves.”

The freedom games. They quickly become known as such among the gladiators, absent a proper name. Even when they are finally given an actual name, those who struggle to gain a place fighting in them refuse to use it. They are the freedom games, identified by the only thing which matters about them to the warriors who will die in them. They are already highly anticipated, even though there’s yet to be a single name confirmed for the standings.

The morning of the Vulcanalia dawns clear, and by the time the gladiators have broken their nighttime fast, it’s already hot. Brothers clasp arms as those who fight gather themselves to leave, and a few jokes are thrown about. But it’s not a joyful occasion, not yet. When they return, probably slightly fewer in number than when they left, that will be a celebration. This procession holds the knowledge that some of them may not return.

Mbege nods briefly to Jasper, Monty, and Miller before setting out with Artigas and Murphy. The two trios go their separate ways, one heading to the practice sands, and the other destined for far more grand sands, steeped in blood. Mbege isn’t nervous, as he steps beyond the large iron gate for the first time since he had been locked within them. He knows he has the skills the win his fight, and he’s confident his comrades do, too.

No one talks as they wait in the tunnels beneath the arena. It’s sort of strange, actually, how peaceful Mbege feels. He can hear the crowd above him, even see them if he chooses to peer through the gates keeping them from the sands. But they don’t inspire nerves or fear in him. Instead, they make him want to rise to their challenge, to make them chant his name and spill blood to arouse their appetites.

Murphy is escorted from their holding cell almost as soon as they enter, and Mbege shoots him a quick smile before he leaves. He’ll be given his choice of weapons and armour in another room, considering he hasn’t proved himself worthy enough to own a set of his own. The magistrate begins a lengthy speech that Mbege mostly ignores, taking a seat where he’ll be able to view the fight.

And then dust trickles from the ceiling as the crowd above them roars their approval, the first two gladiators of the day taking to the arena. It’s easy to see which one is Murphy, less encumbered by armour than his opponent, who wears a full helmet and a chest piece. Murphy wears nothing more than they don in practice, save the addition of a knife strapped to the inside of his forearm within the laces of a bracer. 

Murphy’s opponent is clumsy, but he’s strong. He manages to throw one of Murphy’s swords across the sand in short order, and Murphy manages to cut his leg deeply. Bringing the larger man to his knees is actually almost boring in how easy it looks for Murphy, but then he seems to remember that he needs to win the crowd’s favour to gain a _primus._

So Murphy throws his sword away, and steps back.

The crowd is a beast above Mbege, clamoring for blood, and the brute that Murphy is facing lumbers back to his feet. He charges at Murphy, a bellow echoing from his helmet, and Murphy dodges out of the way, drawing the small knife he had concealed.

“Mbege, come with us.” Mbege sighs as he looks over at the guards who show up to take him away to be outfitted. Of course, he won’t be able to see the end of Murphy’s fight, given that he’s to take the field immediately after. Mbege rises to his feet easily, following the roman guards from the cell and through the tunnels.

Choosing his sword and armour is easy. Mbege fights in classic gladiatorial style, so the supplies he needs are the most easily accessible. Helmet, shield, and sword are quickly donned, and Mbege takes his place at the gate just as Murphy ducks in below a slow swing, bringing his knife to his opponent’s throat. Blood rushes forth in it wake, dousing Murphy and causing the ravenous crowd to go wild. Murphy’s grin is visible in stark contrast to the crimson soaking his skin, and he almost seems as a wild animal when he leaves the ring. Surely he’ll fight in a better position next time, if the crowds are anything to judge by.

It takes a few moments to clear the corpse from the ring, but Mbege hears his name being announced soon enough. The gates open in front of him, and he takes to the sands amidst cheering. Not as loud as it could have been, for he’s still unknown to those filling the stands, but they don’t have a reason to boo at him either. His opponent takes the grounds across from him, a man from east of the Rhine, Gustus. Mbege makes a note of his name and decides that if he is to kill people in order to make a name for himself, he’ll remember the names of all those who fall before him.

Gustus is far more skilled than Murphy’s opponent had been, and Mbege finds himself retreating under blows for the first few exchanges of their fight. Gustus is larger than Mbege, and stronger, which is something he’s unfamiliar with in a partner. But of course, this is not a training partner, someone to spar against in the heat of the day. This is his enemy, someone who will kill him if he does not do the same to them before they have a chance. 

The sound of the crowd dies down in Mbege’s mind, and he focuses on observing the shift of Gustus’ position. He notes toes digging into the sand, sees the twist of his back and the bunch of a muscle, and Mbege ducks the strike, close enough to Gustus’ blade that his heart jumps. With that evaded attack, Mbege turns the battle around.

He presses forward in the heartbeat before Gustus regains himself, raining blows against the other’s armour. A few find skin, as a few of Gustus’ returned strikes do to Mbege, and Mbege continues to press forward, delivering swings of his sword quicker, but with less force. No matter how hard he strikes, it will do very little good so long as his opponent still has his shield and armour intact. 

There, an opening appears to Mbege. A shield held slightly too far out from Gustus’ body allow Mbege to enter that gap with his own and fling the defensive metal to the side. His momentum carries him forward, and Mbege presses his gladius against Gustus’ neck, watching a bead of blood roll down the blade. He pauses, giving his opponent a chance to plead for mercy by raising two fingers to the gamesmaster, if he so desires. But Gustus simply nods at Mbege, leaving his hand by his side.

Mbege draws his sword down, parting flesh with ease. And with one stroke of his blade, Gustus fights no more. The spray of blood against his skin is like drops of acid, yet it invigorates him. He didn’t particularly wish to kill Gustus, but this is victory, in its truest form. Mbege steps back from the corpse and allows it to fall to the sand. He looks at the stands as his senses return to him properly, and he raises his bloodied arms into the air with a wordless shout, his voice raising the fervor of the crowd.

Their clamor is intoxicating, along with the adrenaline of fighting and winning, and Mbege walks from the sands with a pang of regret, desiring nothing more than to continue fighting. But he surrenders his weapon with no argument, and follows the guards back to the cell, where his comrades await their turn at glory.

As soon as Mbege walks into the room, Murphy rushes towards him and embraces him with a kiss, blood still drying upon his skin. Mbege smiles into it, and flips off the other gladiators who make vulgar noises at them. Their relationship, such as it is, was no secret among their brothers, but they still rarely embrace in front of them like this. But blood is a powerful drug, and victory even more so. They break apart quickly, though, Mbege grinning like a fool, and Murphy’s smile slightly more predatory.

“I knew you would win.” Murphy releases Mbege and they walk back to the gate to watch the rest of the games.

“If only it were the _primus_.”

“Soon enough.”

```

Murphy, who becomes known as the “rabid dog” is the first of the pair to win a primus. The crowd goes crazy for him, and for his habit of drawing out battles that could have been won much more quickly. His star rises quickly, and in a set of games sponsored by the magistrate for the amusement of the people, Murphy fights in the _primus_ and wins by forcing his opponent to forfeit. He slits their throat before the gamesmaster passes judgement, a victory, but one that lands him in punishment.

Doctore’s whips cracks through the air, meeting flesh on each strike. Murphy doesn’t make a noise as blood flows down his back, simply glares at anyone in front of him as he bears his punishment. The proceeding is overseen by their _Dominus_ , whose face is a grim mask.

“Even a victor is responsible for their actions.” Had been the words that started Murphy’s punishment. Mbege was on half rations for the next week because he had foolishly tried to stop them from tying Murphy up to be whipped.

As it is, Murphy only ends up nursing five stripes on his back, and a severely wounded ego. Mbege helps him down from the post when Dominus calls a halt to the proceedings, and everyone else begins to depart.

“It was stupid to kill him without permission.” Mbege scolds as he unties Murphy’s wrists.

Murphy just grunts and winces as he flexes his back. They could go to the medicus to bandage his wounds, but they aren’t even very deep. Daily training hurts them more than that, the only real reason for his punishment was to make it publicly known that their Dominus would not abide by actions like that in the future.

“It doesn’t matter.” Murphy says as they head towards the cells, of which Murphy and Mbege now have private ones. “We’ll be free of here soon enough.”

“You mean you will be. You forget that I still have yet to fight after midday.” Although Mbege fought in every games, and won every match, he wasn’t nearly as entertaining to watch as many of the others. The Harpies, Murphy, and Lincoln had all secured their place in the freedom games, and there was only a fortnight left before them. There would only be one more chance to win a position, two at the most. It seemed increasingly unlikely that Mbege would be able to count himself among them.

They pass through the door to Murphy’s cell, and Murphy lays on his stomach on his bed with a groan as Mbege gets some clean linen to clean his wounds with. Murphy’s cell is far nicer than Mbege’s, which doesn’t have the privacy of a door, simply a wall of iron bars. Mbege finds what he’s looking for and tends to Murphy’s back carefully.

“Then I’ll just have to buy your freedom when I am a rich, free man. Either way, we’ll be free of this place.”

Mbege pauses with his hand on Murphy’s back as a thought occurs to him. They had been told the rules of the freedom games earlier that week, and for some reason the flaw in the plan of both him and Murphy fighting in it hadn’t occurred to him until today. The games were to be no quarter given, fights to the death, with the victors of each round competing in a melee battle to the last man as the _primus_. There would only be one victor.

“Maybe it’s best that I don’t compete in the games.”

Murphy rolls slightly onto his side to look at Mbege. “Why the hell would you say that?”

“There will only be one victor, Murphy. Only one of us could win freedom, and the other would die.” The fact that it hadn’t occurred to Murphy is strange to Mbege, but Murphy just laughs at him.

“Of course, that’s what they say. But the crowd wants a victor, grouch, and I know how to use that to our advantage.” Mbege just raises an eyebrow in question, and Murphy sighs and continues. “We both fight our way to the _primus_ , and ensure we don’t die in that shit show of a fight. Then, when we’re the last two standing, we put on a little show. A fake fight, that ends with one of us disarming the other, and then laying down their own weapons. We give them a choice, no victors, or two of them.”

“You really think that will work?” The plan seems foolish to Mbege, but he also didn’t seem to know the crowd as well as Murphy. Murphy rolls back onto his stomach.

“Of course it will. Now get back to work, I don’t want to die of an infection before you have a chance to see how brilliant I am.” Mbege smack Murphy’s shoulder, but does as instructed. Perhaps the plan, ludicrous as it seems, would work. But in order to even see if that’s an option, Mbege has to land one of the final primuses and he has to win it.

```

Mbege is supposed to die in the _primus_ of the final games before the freedom games. It’s not explicitly stated, but it’s obvious enough given his opponent, and the structure of the match itself. Mbege may not have known much about the arena and the bloodsports which play out within it before he had been abducted from his life as a free man, but he learned a lot since that point. Enough to know that being one of three men from his _ludus_ to face a singular opponent in a match means that opponent is a legend, and enough to know exactly who that legend is. 

Indra, the Unbroken Blade. As rumour has it, she had never learned any language save that of her homeland, where she was captured from a warrior tribe that prided themselves on honourable battles. Men and women alike had fallen before her in the arena with ease, a testament to either her skill, or the training which she had received under her own people. She was a fearsome enemy, and to go up against her was to court death itself.

The trip to the Arena, with his brothers by his side, is familiar to Mbege by this point. Each stone that rolls underfoot, each building they pass is like an old friend to him. The tunnels beneath the arena are engraved in his memory, and the guards are there more as a formality than anything. Mbege would not try to flee, not at this point. He’ll win his freedom one day, absolutely, but he will do so with blood in his mouth and sand beneath his feet, not fleeing from Romans.

The crowds chant each of their names as they take to the floor on which they will lose their lives, or win a chance at freedom. Mbege, the Call of Death. Emerson, the Hidden Blade. Miller, the Slave that Fell. The titles were chosen for them at random, the first announcer to call them at his whim dubbing them with them for their careers, save some great change. The stands are full of people who have been drinking in the bloody spectacle all day, each match only foreplay to what is about to transpire. 

“And their opponent, Indra, the Unbroken Blade!” The voice calls into the ring, and Mbege is permitted his first look at their opponent. She stands taller than any of the Harpies, and holds herself in the same manner as Doctore does. She knows she is a more accomplished fighter than any of those facing her, and she knows they know it too. There’s no hint of a smile, cocky or challenging, about her. She simply takes the sands confidently, staring each one of them down.

“Begin!”

Indra doesn’t move, nor do Mbege or Miller. But Emerson, who had been bragging since the announcement of the _primus_ about how he would slay a legend today, rushes forward. Mbege could have joined him in his attack, and perhaps the outcome would have been different. But he holds back, to study his enemy, and watches as Indra calmly sidesteps the attack and caves in Emerson’s helmet with one blow.

Two to one, and the odds slip ever further out of Mbege’s favour. Indra is strong, and careful. There will be no surprising her, and Mbege has never doubted his chances for success as he does in that moment. He exchanges a look with Miller, and they both nod. They will have to fight together in order to have a hope at surviving.

Indra attacks them next, her muscles barely betraying her intent before she lays into them with blows as fierce as any Mbege has faced in the past. Miller and Mbege separate, sand flying as they roll away, splitting into two targets for her. Split her focus, and they might have a chance.

Indra’s attention turns towards Mbege, and he prepares himself to be bait. If he can draw her into a one on one battle, Miller might be able to surprise her with a lethal blow from behind. As her gladius arcs through the scorching air, seeking Mbege’s flesh, he raises his shield, catching the blow. He attempts to push her sword away, to create an opening for his own, but Indra allows it to slide easily off his shield. She doesn’t engage in any exchanges of strength, simply throwing heavy strikes at him and disengaging immediately. 

Mbege glances over her shoulder at one point, seeing Miller circling around behind her, but his attention is drawn back to her in short measure as a burning pain flares in his side, the tip of Indra’s gladius scraping over his ribs on his right side. Mbege grunts and pushes forward, hoping to break their encounter long enough for Miller to strike her down. Indra does stumble back slightly under Mbege’s prompting, feet bringing her slightly closer to where Miller is rushing at her, sword ready to swing at her unprotected back. But then, just a second too late to do anything, Mbege notices the position of her feet. She hadn’t stumbled at all.

Indra turns just as Miller is about to set upon her, using the momentum that Mbege had oh so kindly given her with his shove. A shout tears its way from Mbege’s throat as he watches Miller’s eyes grow wide, too close to change his course, the point of a gladius seeking his gut. And it finds its mark easily, parting skin and muscle. Indra takes one step forward, driving her sword clear through Miller’s stomach, and then turns back to Mbege with a brutal twist that would rip her sword clear from Miller’s stomach, finishing the killing blow.

It would have been a quick battle to finish at that point, save one thing. Miller wasn’t dead yet. As Indra went to pull her sword through Miller’s side, he reached down and grabbed the blade with his hands, preventing its passage. Indra’s action was thwarted, and she turned back to Miller with a growl.

Miller doesn’t shout at Mbege to move, nor does he do anything save for hold onto Indra’s sword, the action itself seeming to hold her attention as well. Mbege rushes at her, sand making hardly any noise underfoot, no battle cry or shouted proclamation of revenge for his fallen brother’s coming forth from him to betray his action. No, Mbege is silent, up until the point that he drives his own blade through Indra’s chest.

Then, as Miller releases the sword and crumples to the ground, no more tips or pieces of knowledge to come forth from his lips ever again, Mbege makes voice to his rage. The wordless cry that had earned him his title sounds, in anger and pain at the loss of one of the few people Mbege called friend. He rips his sword from Indra’s chest, moving around to face her as she falls to her knees.

“You fought well.” And there is a smile on Indra’s face as she disproves the rumour about her spoken tongue. Mbege does not return it, just bares his teeth and brings his sword through the air with one more shout, parting her head from her neck.

Mbege, the Call of Death and Breaker of Blades, earns the final position in the freedom games.

```

There are only a few days between Mbege’s triumph over Indra and the much anticipated games. They spend one mourning Miller, setting his and Emerson’s bodies aflame one evening, to carry their spirits to the Gods. Mbege, Murphy, and the others of their little group pledge portions of their winnings to Miller’s mother, that she could live even though her son had passed from this world.

Mbege and Murphy train harder than they ever had before, and they spend their night going over the details of their plan. Mbege’s cell remains empty until the night before the games themselves, when he claims a need to think and rest, that they may fight in their best form. Rest doesn’t come to him, though, consumed with thought as he is.

Their plan is simple. Kill everyone, except for each other, and win the crowd’s favour enough that they both will be granted freedom. But still, Mbege has misgivings. He sees no reason why they won’t both be killed, why the gamesmaster won’t just command the guards who ring the arena to enter and execute them. But Murphy is so certain it will work, so adamant that they’ll both emerge from the arena tomorrow night as free men.

Mbege rolls over with a sigh, mattress beneath him still feeling quite foreign after the time he had spent in the cell as a recruit and an unknown gladiator. To think there was a time when all he desired was to have a cell such as the one he lays in now. Those days seem so far past that it doesn’t even bear thinking. Mbege breathes evenly, attempting to calm himself to sleep, surrendering the course that tomorrow will play out in to the hands of the Gods. 

Of course, when the morrow dawns, with clouds making their patchy way across the heavens, everything goes according to Murphy’s plan. They both kill their opponents, with much effort and no lack of their own blood shed on the sands along with that of their enemy. Some of their brothers falls, Harper, Octavia, and Monroe being the only three to join them in the _primus_. There is no celebration of their victories, knowing that all but one of them must fall. Or two, as Murphy would have it.

The _primus_ approaches quickly, faster than Mbege would have liked. He finds himself growing nervous, more nervous than he had ever been before. Even if he wins, even if he does everything he’s supposed to, there’s no guarantee that he won’t be killed in the end anyway. But he’ll try, he decides, he’ll try to stick to the plan. For Murphy.

But then it’s time, and they are all lead to separate gates. Two guards enter the arena and take up post next to the gates with each of them, as always. And in that moment, as Mbege looks around and counts the men who could kill him and Murphy if they don’t take kindly to their plan, Mbege makes a plan of his own. 

Gladiators from varying _ludi_ fight each other, rather than their brothers. All of them know they may have to kill one of their brethren, or more, to win the day, but they prolong that moment. Blood drenches the sands until it is almost more like blood underfoot, and Mbege fights simply off of muscle memory, his mind focused on what he now knows he must do.

Gladiators fall around them, their deaths pitching the gathered crowd into a frenzy. In the end, it all lines up according to the plan. Murphy and Mbege. Two victors, facing each other, drenched in both their own blood and that of foreign bodies. They square off against each other, and Murphy gives Mbege a nod. They have planned this fight down to each step, and Mbege knows what’s coming next. 

Mbege knows exactly how to move to avoid Murphy’s lunge, and where he’s supposed to be after the dodge. He knows what each move will be, but he doesn’t follow their plan. But Mbege’s new plan has him stepping to the side, shield dropping to the sand along with his sword. His new plan has Murphy’s sword enter his stomach, and Mbege steps forward to force it through his back.

It doesn’t hurt as much as Mbege had thought it would. After all, they had spent years together being beaten, abused, and molded into killers. The sword piercing his gut hurts only a little more than some injuries he’d sustained in the past, and for a moment he worries that it won’t actually kill him. That Murphy will end up going ahead with his stupid plan, and they’ll both die for nothing. They’re frozen for a moment, shock spreading slowly across Murphy’s face as his eyes fall to Mbege’s stomach. It’s peaceful, and even though Mbege knows he’s going to die soon, he feels far more calm than he can ever remember being before. This feels right, to die in the arena, falling for a reason other than the glory of his _Dominus_. 

And then the moment of peace passes, and the roar of the crowd bears down on the pair. Mbege falls to the sand, and Murphy drops to his knees beside him, releasing the sword but leaving it in Mbege. Not that it matters, Murphy won’t need a sword after today. He grabs Mbege’s shoulders and glares at him.

“What the hell did you do that for, idiot?! That wasn’t part of the plan.” Mbege snorts. He knows the anger isn’t real. Murphy’s never genuinely angry at him, but it’s just how he expresses his emotions. He’ll get over it, in the time that Mbege’s bought for him.

“Plan never would have worked. Even I knew that.”

“At least we could have tried!” Mbege shakes his head and closes his eyes. He doesn’t want to see the hurt that is rapidly winning its way through the anger on Murphy’s face. 

“Come on, Murph. We would have died, both of us, for no reason.” Something wet falls on Mbege’s forehead. It could be rain, or tears. He doesn’t really want to know. “If either of us can live free, it’s you. You were always the one who fought back, Murphy.”

“Then I’ll fight the fucking Gods, I’m not going to let you die.” There’s the man Mbege had grown to care for, the Pretty Boy who dared to bite a slaver. It’s in the snarl in his voice, proof that he’ll be able to live as a free man where Mbege may have failed in that task. He’d never felt more at home than when he was fighting for another man’s profit.

“I was dead the second they put a collar around my neck.” Mbege’s voice sounds quiet even to his ears, now. The pain is receding, and he knows he’ll be in a position to ask the Gods why they had treated him like this in but a few moments. He opens his eyes once more, desperate for one last look at Murphy, and he smiles. “You have to live for the both of us now, okay?”

Murphy nods, and Mbege lets his gaze drift up towards the heavens, beyond the crowd and the artificial trappings of the arena. He would be remembered, if only as the final opponent of the freed slave, John Murphy. It was a good enough reason to be remembered, and it was more than he’d ever hoped for back when he was a free man.

The sun, burning bright in the sky above them, seems to be calling to him, and Mbege can’t find it in him to deny it. By the time Murphy releases him and takes a few shaky steps on his feet, allowing the guards to drag his corpse away, Mbege is long gone. He lives on only in the memories of those who know him, and the one that he had loved.

**Author's Note:**

> So, this was to be my _The 100 Big Bang_ fic, but due to complications, we're all supposed to be posting by ourselves, I think! Anyway, I wrote like 4k of this at the start of the last month, and then finished it all in one go the night before it was due. There are a lot of things I feel like I ought to say here, but mostly I'm just happy to post this and finally be done! Thanks to [coldsaturn](http://coldsaturn.tumblr.com) for all her help with editing and encouragement, and to [ewal-s](http://ewal-s.tumblr.com) for the encouragement and John headcanoning!
> 
> Come chat with me [on tumblr!](http://furiosawiththecurl.tumblr.com) As always, thanks in advance for reading/commenting/leaving kudos <3


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